


Nutritionless Carbohydrates

by Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated



Series: Fifty Three Fridays [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29236149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated/pseuds/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated
Summary: A voice spoke up from behind them. “They can’t swim away from problems they don’t understand.” It was stern. “You shouldn’t be feeding them bread. It can cause malnutrition in ducklings and make it harder for adult ducks to evade predators. You should feed them something of nutritional value.”He blinked. “What’s of nutritional value to aduck?”
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Fifty Three Fridays [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099091
Comments: 3
Kudos: 60





	Nutritionless Carbohydrates

**Author's Note:**

> "They feed the ducks in the local park.
> 
> Not bread, enj chided him for feeding them bread, but like seeds and cut up grapes and nuts
> 
> Things good for ducks."
> 
> Okay MJ. I can do that.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac were sat, leaning into each other, on the cold park bench. Grantaire halfheartedly threw a handful of breadcrumbs at the early waking ducks.

He looked up at Courf, eyes rimmed with red, and sniffled. “Courf you’re the  _ best.” _

Courfeyrac laughed and pressed a half empty water bottle into his hand. “You’re just drunk, Grantaire,” he said gently. “But I love you, too.”

Grantaire was, indeed, quite drunk. He took a sip of the water, and watched the ducks peck at the breadcrumbs. “Were that  _ I _ was a duck, and could just swim away from my problems.”

A voice spoke up from behind them. “They can’t swim away from problems they don’t understand.” It was stern. “You shouldn’t be feeding them bread. It can cause malnutrition in ducklings and make it harder for adult ducks to evade predators. You should feed them something of nutritional value.”

Grantaire turned to look at the man judging them for  _ feeding the ducks. _ Despite the cold weather of the early morning, the man was dressed in just tight running shorts and a loose tank top, his phone in one of those stupid arm band holders, and his headphones around his neck. He looked slightly sweaty, like he’d stopped on his run at—Grantaire glanced at his phone: five am, Jesus—to berate a drunk man for feeding the ducks breadcrumbs. 

A moment later he took in that the man wasn’t just scowling at him and sweaty, he was also unfairly gorgeous. His curly blond hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and he looked unfairly like the marble statue of a greek youth. Adonis or Achilles, maybe. Achilles felt more accurate just then to Grantaire—the man’s expression wouldn’t look out of place on someone drenched in their enemy’s blood, and Grantaire felt a sudden pang of longing to be someone’s—this man’s—Patroclus.

He blinked. “What’s of nutritional value to a  _ duck?” _

The man sighed heavily. “Shredded lettuce, or frozen peas, or corn, or oats. Not empty carbs for a creature that can’t digest them.”

Grantaire nodded helplessly. “Alright.”

The man stuck his headphones on and moved on.

Courfeyrac broke his silence by letting out a cackle of laughter. “You really will agree to anything that a pretty boy says to you, huh!”

Grantaire shook himself and scowled. “It’s about the  _ ducks, _ Courfeyrac. I want them  _ alive.” _

“Sure, Grantaire, sure.”

Grantaire yawned, suddenly, and he and Courfeyrac stumbled back to their apartment, giddy from not sleeping, in the watery early morning light.

The next week found Grantaire sitting alone on the park bench, exhausted. Courfeyrac had  _ refused _ to get up with him at 4:15 to go feed ducks in the park on the off chance that the beautiful man who had told him off before made a habit of running so early.  _ Fuck, _ what if he wasn’t even local?

Grantaire dejectedly tossed a handful of frozen peas towards the ducks.

Someone spoke from behind him, and he nearly knocked his steaming thermos of coffee over.

“I see you found something that won’t kill them,” Achilles said—but he wasn’t angry, and the moniker no longer fit. Apollo, perhaps—preparing to drive his chariot. Apollo had a lover—Hyacinthus, Grantaire remembered. Killed by the West Wind.

“Yeah,” Grantaire forced out.

Apollo nodded at him. “No boyfriend, today?”

Grantaire blinked. “Boyfriend? You mean  _ Courfeyrac?” _ He laughed. “My roommate puts up with too much of me as it is, I don’t think he deserves  _ that _ fate.”

The man shrugs. “Have fun with them.”

The next week, Grantaire brought sweetcorn, and Apollo brought a friend. They seemed deep in conversation. Apollo didn’t notice him—his companion nodded at him.

Grantaire started feeding the ducks every morning. Courfeyrac thought he was insane. About half the time, he was still awake and drunk from the night before. He thought about bringing his easel out here and painting the early morning.

Apollo and his companion ran by every morning, usually gracing him with a nod or a wave.

Four weeks into his new daily routine, Apollo and his companion… didn’t show up. Five am came and went without a sign of blonde hair. Grantaire tried not to worry. At six thirty, the sun completely risen and his bag of shredded lettuce almost empty, Grantaire considered leaving.

Apollo’s companion jogged around the corner. Grantaire was standing and flagging down the runner before he could register having thought about it.

The man looked surprised to see him, and pulled out his earbuds.

“Is he okay?” Grantaire gestured at the empty space beside the man. “Apollo, is he…” It hit him suddenly how odd he seemed. The man looked at him consideringly, almost smiling.

“Apollo?”

Grantaire sat back down, embarrassed, and threw out a bit more lettuce. “Your running partner. The golden god, savior of ducks, bringer of truth, light, and prophecy…”

The man laughed, and sat down next to him. “Enjolras is sleeping in. He was only ever running with me because he lost a bet—he’s usually a swimmer, not a runner.”

Grantaire’s shoulders slumped. “Ah.”

The man offered him a hand. “I’m Combeferre.”

“Grantaire.” They shook hands.

Combeferre stood. “Be here tomorrow morning—I’ll tell him you were waiting.”

Grantaire didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t drink either, simply paced around the apartment until Courfeyrac smacked him with a pillow and dragged him onto their couch to watch a movie.

At four forty five, Grantaire arrived in the park, yawning and holding a bag of frozen peas. He sat down on his bench, and started feeding his ducks.

At three past five, Combeferre and Apollo—Enjolras—jogged up and stopped.

“Hey Apollo,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and looked up at the sky. “Hardly a sun god when it’s still night,” he said.

Grantaire laughed under his breath. “It only looks like night to you. You cannot see that it is you that dispels the dark. The sun cannot see its own light—space must look awfully dark to it. What light it does see is its own brilliance reflected back in fractions by that which orbits it. So must it be with you, Apollo.”

He smiled and walked over, offering a hand. “Enjolras. Do you go by a name other than Hyacinthus?”

Grantaire’s breath caught, and he took Enjolras’s hand. “Grantaire,” he breathed, filling with wonder. “My name is Grantaire.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to the Hoes! [Join the discord!](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA)


End file.
